thy manes, brave, generous St. Clair." An agonizing shriek from above
startled all; and in another moment the lady (the traveller in the
diligence) fell on what appeared to be the soldier's bier. "Heavens! what
dream is this?" exclaimed the officer who had been so assiduous in his
attention to the unfortunate man; "my sister here!--let me intreat, let me
beg--" "No, Albert Fitzalleyn--no, brother, no," uttered Mrs. St. Clair,
"remove me not--I am calm, resigned, very, very calm--I expected this--if I
cannot live I can die with him. St. Clair, awake--your wife, your Charlotte
calls--what not one smile?--look here," she cried, pulling the frightened,
trembling, weeping child towards the body, "your child, your boy, your
dearest Edward calls for you too. O, agony! he does not move. Dead! no, no,
it cannot be--my life, my love, my husband." And there was something, it
did seem, in that sweet voice which reached the dying warrior's heart, for
he opened those eyes already partly glazed with the film of death, and if
in them expression remained, it beamed on his afflicted wife. Reason and
strength too returned, but their dominion was momentary, for with one hand
feebly grasping that of his wife, his other resting on the head of his dear
boy, and his sunken eyes directed from the one to the other, the brave, the
respected, the beloved St. Clair died! He sank on the rough, uncouth couch,
and with him the senseless form of his fond wife. The stillness of the
corpse scarcely surpassed that which for a time was reigning over the group
assembled there; at length the brother gently raised the wretched widow
from her sad resting-place; but the fair sufferer was released from all
earthly pain; with her husband she could not live, but she indeed with him
had died! Their son, Edward St. Clair, is in existence, living with, and
beloved by, his uncle, Albert Fitzalleyn,

THE PAINTER.

* * * * *